Proposals
by rosieee
Summary: Yes or no? A collection of crucial unseen moments in the Potterverse. Canon-compliant, ships included. CH 4: Neville steps up.
1. Restlessness

(Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am quite poor, in fact. College costs a lot of moolah.)

**CHAPTER 1: Restlessness**

James Potter was a man who couldn't keep still. As a young boy he had been fidgety to a point of exasperation, and while he had much more luck in taming this habit than he did with his consistently untidy black hair over the years, sometimes a wave of jitters, twitches and jolts overcame him and he became a restless wreck.

These days, his moves were usually limited to bouncing his left knee and combing his stuck-up spikes repeatedly between his long fingers, but today there was a very special weight in the back pocket of his jeans nestled right beside his mahogany wand, and his right hand kept making its way back there every few moments. The pads of his fingers would stroke the luxurious velvet of the small box, and sometimes his hand would emerge from his pocket still holding the treasure. When this happened James would quickly open and close the lid a few times, glimpsing a warm flash as the firelight of the room flickered and reflected off the facets of the jewel enclosed within the case.

Then he would glance around the tavern suspiciously, and when he was satisfied that whoever he was searching for was nowhere to be seen, he'd quickly shove the package once more into the safety of his pocket.

He couldn't help but notice how ridiculous he must look to the other current patrons of the Three Broomsticks. James was holed up alone in a corner booth, an untouched butterbeer waiting, lonely, in front of him; his hands were clammy, and his brow would undoubtedly start to dampen at any moment, what with all the stress he was feeling.

He'd only done this to himself. His girlfriend of seven months was shopping the High Street with her friends Alice and Marlene, and had been doing so for the past few hours. Meanwhile, the rest of his friends the Marauders were celebrating the day—April 1st, their most sacred—setting up prank after delicious prank within the mostly empty halls of Hogwarts while the rest of the student body enjoyed the first truly nice spring day they'd seen in ages. Lily'd told him earlier that she had no problem with him remaining with his friends for their last April Fools' Day at school, instead of meeting her for a late lunch at the Three Broomsticks as they typically did on Hogsmeade weekends, but James took this with a grain of salt; while Lily had lightened up immensely since she began dating James at the beginning of this school year, he doubted that she would gloss over some of the more ruthless tricks the Marauders were setting up for the Slytherins at this very moment. Even though he had been instrumental in planning it all, being removed from its execution would protect James from the brunt of the Head Girl's displeasure (which had less to do with the actual pranks, but more with the fact that he, as Head Boy, "should know better.")

He glanced at his wizard's watch; the golden hand was getting close to Saturn, so he figured Lily would be walking through the tavern doors any minute now. He would take this second of solitude to go over his plan once more in his mind.

He would greet Lily as if everything was normal, standing up to give her a hug and a momentary peck on the lips, then Banishing her cloak and bags to the rack just across from the bar. He'd call to Rosmerta for their usual; one Shepherd's pie for him, a roast beef sandwich and chips for his girl, two fresh butterbeers and two shots of firewhisky.

James chuckled, remembering their first date. Lily'd challenged his Ogden's tolerance after a mere butterbeer had turned him a bit tipsy--he was convinced it had been spiked with something much stronger. The girl had then proceeded to drink him under the table, her red cheeks the only signal that she'd been drinking shot after shot. Since then, the pair had made a tradition of having at least one shot every time they went to the Three Broomsticks, and James always drank to his "fiery Lils."

His hand absently drifted back to his right pocket and the tiny package resting there. Their firewhisky toast was the moment; he'd even pre-planned what to say.

"To my fiery Lils… the woman I've realized I can never live without." They'd each drain their shotglasses, and then he'd pull out the velvet box. "I love you, Lily, and I want to make a life with you before this war takes control of our lives, our minds, and our hearts. Will you—"

A familiar, tinkling laugh was just discernible outside the window near his seat; he turned to watch his girlfriend's auburn waves bounce as she animatedly spoke her goodbyes to her two friends, then strode around the corner to the front door of the tavern.

James stood up and gave her a charming half-smile as she made her way to their favorite corner booth, inevitably passing his hand through his black mop of hair one more time. He couldn't help but notice how beautiful she looked, even in the simple emerald jumper and denim skirt she was wearing that day. As she removed her cloak, he saw that she was wearing the golden star pendant he'd bought her for her birthday, and that brought the smile up to crinkle near his hazel eyes cheerfully.

"Breathtaking, as usual, Lils. Hope you're not tired of hearing it by now."

That laugh again. It brought up a wonderful feeling in James' abdomen.

"A girl never tires of compliments, James. Especially when she knows they're sincere." Her freckled fingers tenderly entwined with his on the tabletop.

"Who's dared give you insincere compliments? I'll hereby Transfigure them into something ridiculously hilarious! That is, if you haven't already adeptly handled them yourself."

"Too right, James. They're already taken care of. But thank you for the kind sentiments." She paused to lean across the table and kiss him strongly. "What've you been up to all day? Reveling in April Fools' debauchery with the boys?" She couldn't keep a straight face over her last comment, and James grinned at her attempts.

"Well—no, actually—they've run away with this one on their own. I was caught up in something else rather important this morning." He skirted the question; James didn't want to lie to Lily, but Rosmerta was chatting up a dark, most likely handsome bloke at the bar and taking her sweet time with their drinks.

He decided to steel himself and press on. Screw his bloody plan.

"I actually made my way over to Diagon Alley; had to make a crucial visit to the Potter vault." Lily's brow wrinkled, and he could anticipate her oncoming question. "All cleared with Dumbledore, of course, Lils."

"What did you need from Gringotts? More Galleons to lavish gifts upon your poor unsuspecting girlfriend?" Her green eyes glittered with amusement, making them appear even more jewel-like.

"No. I had to retrieve an old Potter heirloom." He slid the black velvet box from its quiet hiding place and laid it ceremoniously on the tabletop, tapping it with his index finger. Before Lily could reach out and sate her curiosity by opening the mysterious case, James continued. "My mother told me that it holds great power, and only to take it from the vault when I was ready to assume the full responsibility of its meaning. I think now is the right time."

Of course, Rosmerta had also decided it was the right time to bring over their drinks, and she forcefully deposited both mugs and the two shot glasses with her wand before returning to her post at the bar.

The young man couldn't take it anymore. His twitchy hands reached forward and pulled the two sides of the box apart like a clam, presenting the shimmering diamond ring perched within.

"Lily Evans, will you marry me?" He stared into the depths of those eyes that he had come to know so well. Did he see pleasant surprise, or panic behind those pupils? "I love you," he added hopefully.

Slowly, her lips parted to reveal the widest smile he had ever seen from her, and she nodded while her eyes glistened with a whisper of tears. Her hand grasped his tightly.

"Yes."

James let out a breath of relief. Had he really been holding his breath that entire time?

"Rosie, darling, we're going to need another round. Today's a special day," he projected across the tavern to the kind woman tending the bar. Then he raised the shot he already had at the table and nodded at Lily.

"To my fiery Lils, who I've realized I can't live without."

"And you won't have to, James."

They drank to that.

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**(A/N: So. It's been a while, I know. A LONG while. My life ran away with me, if that makes any sense. Happily, though, I already have 4 chapters written for this-- so updates should be regular. I figure one chapter'll be posted each week... or maybe bi-weekly if this chapter doesn't get much of a response. _That means, if you read, REVIEW. _ So I know how people feel about it, and you'll get more soon. **

**Anyway, this fic will be a collection of crucial moments we haven't witnessed in canon. Not all of them will be marriage proposals, regardless of what the title conveys. Next chapter will be much less fluffy, but about the same length. I'm really open to suggestions-- what scenes would you like to see? And do you think I stuck to canon well enough? **

**Concrit will be heavily appreciated... e-hugs await all who review!)**


	2. Fear

(Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all this, not I. Which is somewhat disappointing considering how much time I devote to Potter-related pursuits.)

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**CHAPTER 2: Fear**

Scurrying through the darkened side streets of Hogsmeade was a man. Short and slightly plump, he surprisingly moved quite quickly for a man of his size, and his boot-clad feet shuffled rapidly through the freshly fallen snow until he reached a dingy, yet familiar dimly-lit building. He brought his head up to examine the sign hanging above the ghostly doorway with his small, watery eyes; it read "The Hog's Head" and boasted a carving of the large decapitated head of a boar, its black eyes glittering in the glow of a gaslight situated across the street from the inn.

The wizard pocketed his chestnut wand and stepped quietly through the entryway of the less-frequented Hogsmeade pub. He brought one small hand up to brush the powdery snow out of his dirty blond curls. Looking towards the bar, he was surprised to find not the stolid ever-present barkeeper, but a different man wiping down the counter with a grayish rag—he wasn't unlike in composure, however, and gave a similar grunt of a greeting to the man as he took a seat in front of him.

His mind wandered; he wondered where the mysterious Aberforth Dumbledore, the usual gray-haired presence at the bar, could be at that very moment. Perhaps his brother had finally persuaded the elusive man to partake in a mission for the Order of the Phoenix on this cold winter night. Or maybe he was performing inappropriate magics on goats again; he remembered that Professor Dumbledore had pulled his brother aside at their last meeting and, while he couldn't make out everything that was said between them, he had heard quite a lot about goats and the Improper Use of Magic Office.

Suddenly, the man shook his head, as if trying to erase these thoughts from plaguing his brain. The Order of the Phoenix was constantly on his mind these days. Actually, he realized, it had haunted him ever since his three friends had pushed him to join up with them. Whether he was thinking about the last meeting of the group, any upcoming missions, or the idea that there was a giant target on his back, which Death Eaters could be aiming for at this very second, the fact remained that he was stressed to no end by his membership.

"Pettigrew," a gruff yet quiet voice muttered.

The man gave a small squeak and jumped off his barstool, wand in hand once more. He turned around and searched the small room, squinting to see clearly in the dim light of the dying fire.

"Come sit, and have a drink with me." An order, not a request. Who could it be? Some dodgy characters frequented the Hog's Head; Peter suddenly wished that he'd gone to the crowded, yet infinitely more charming Three Broomsticks for a drink, instead of this place. He didn't even have the comfort of Aberforth here to watch over him this evening. He would meet his end here, tonight. He felt it in his whiskers.

Pettigrew could make out a silhouette seated in the far corner of the room; why anyone would want to sit at a table coated in sawdust and cobwebs, the man didn't know. The shadow looked menacing, but Peter was nevertheless curious enough to slowly slink over, his feet kicking up centuries-old dust and making his eyes water.

"There's a good boy. It's time for a nice little chat." The voice seemed slightly amused, like it was enjoying a secret joke, and it reminded Peter of the way a teenage Sirius had spoken to him at times.

As he neared, features began to reveal themselves. Long, black, shining hair. Dark, black-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes. Peter froze mid-step.

"B-Bellatrix? What're you… doing, here?"

"I might ask you that myself, little Pettigrew. Taking nighttime strolls into dark pubs, now, are we?" She twirled her long walnut wand carelessly between her index and middle fingers. "And I said sit," she finished harshly, gesturing at the empty seat across from her.

He was fearful, and in such a state didn't even consider turning and running out of the iniquitous building. He plopped into the stool, eyes wide.

"What's your poison, Pettigrew?" He had planned on ordering a butterbeer to warm himself up, but the thought of Bellatrix Lestrange cackling at this admission forced a new hand.

"Mead, thanks." The dark woman waved her wand and two grimy glasses of mulled mead came floating to their table, unheeded by the barman, who had now pointlessly committed himself to sweeping the dust and dirt-encrusted floor.

"How's life going along for you, then?" Bellatrix coughed.

"I—I don't understand." What would a Death Eater like Lestrange care about Peter's insignificant, measly existence? Peter's own close friends barely asked him how he was doing on a regular basis; they were constantly discussing Order business and strategies.

She chuckled knowingly. "The Dark Lord knows you are unhappy, Peter. He has sent me here with a proposition." The small wizard shrunk even further into his seat as she leaned forward and continued.

"Being aligned with Dumbledore and his foolish Order is akin to suicide in these times. You're clever enough; you know this. The Dark Lord is reaching out to you. He will provide protection, in return for… certain information." Bellatrix's thin lips curled into a smirk, and she returned to twirling her wand incessantly.

Protection? This is what Peter had been hoping for; how ironic, that the darkest of all wizards would be the one to answer his prayers. He had to know more.

"What sort of information?" His left eye twitched as he tried to suppress his fear of Bellatrix and, to a greater extent, You-Know-Who.

Bella rolled her black eyes immaturely, and Peter was again reminded why she was related to his friend Sirius. "The Dark Lord, regrettably, does not reveal all of his deepest plans to me, though I would keep all of his secrets willingly. You will have to take that up with him. I was sent as a messenger, and nothing more." Peter's heart chilled, and he noticed that he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. He gripped his neglected glass desperately. His breath hitched.

"D—Do you know, what kind of protection he offers? Can I leave the Order, go into hiding?"

The woman scoffed, and a sneer worked its way up her aristocratic features.

"The Dark Lord would never so eagerly give up a chance to glimpse at the inner workings of Dumbledore's little fan club," she spat. Peter gulped. The idea of being a spy did not appeal to him in the slightest.

"He would most likely require a constant stream of information from you, a small favor to offer him for your life and safety, I'd think, Pettigrew. You'd be daft to ignore this privilege. The Dark Lord does not make these types of offers to just anyone."

Peter couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The offer was tempting, admittedly. Bellatrix and the Dark Lord: these were not people to be taken lightly, or truly trusted. But they were powerful. And the Death Eaters had been gaining ground in this war from the beginning, while Order members were being slaughtered left and right; Dorcas Meadowes had gone missing three days ago, and there was no doubt in Peter's mind that she was right now lying somewhere, the life gone from her eyes.

Peter had been so scared, no – utterly frightened—for so long. This was his opportunity to finally breathe a safe breath again.

"How do I get in touch with Him?"

Bella grinned darkly. Another successful mission completed for her master. He would be quite pleased with her.

"Come now. He is calling us through the Mark, and he will receive you well."

Two black cloaks slid out of the Hog's Head and vanished in a cloud of black smoke, as the white snow continued to drift from the sky, blanketing a peacefully sleeping Hogsmeade.

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(**A/N: Reviews are good for the soul. Almost as good as chicken soup, which I have a craving for right now. I also have a craving for reviews, which you need to satisfy for me! I'll even take a one-word review. I'm that desperate.**

**In other news, chapter 3 stars fandom's favorite misunderstood Potions Master. Tune in next week, same time, same place!**)


	3. Control

Proposals

CHAPTER 3: Control

He had always prided himself on his control. His mind never went astray; he had near-perfect dueling skills; he could keep his face utterly expressionless for hours. If Severus Snape hadn't been middle-nameless, he was absolutely sure that "Control" would have been the word wedged between his first and last names. It wasn't as if his name would have been any less odd without that small addition.

However, she had changed him. He couldn't stop his thoughts racing to those almond-shaped green eyes, her warm sincere smile, her cheeks lightly tinged with red as she blushed whenever receiving a compliment.

He was scared, worried that when he thought of her, his feelings showed clearly in his expression. She had broken his control. She had broken him.

Sometimes she made him angry, or nervous. He would blurt things he'd never meant to say, just because she was around him, and that would set him off even more. A year ago, he had done the worst.

Ever-so-popular Potter, and his insolent bunch of troublemakers, had used his own _Levicorpus _spell against him, hanging him upside down for all to see. As the blood rushed to his sallow face and the early summer breeze off the lake washed over his bare white legs, he realized that Lily was there, watching. Lily had seen this; his prized lily had seen him at his most vulnerable. He became greatly embarrassed, and even more angered.

He had done the worst.

"…_Mudblood." _

And, then, she had done the worst. She wouldn't speak to him, and it seemed she might never do so again. After a lonely summer for the both of them, the only two Hogwarts students in the area, she returned to Hogwarts and befriended the werewolf and the riffraff he associated with—Pettigrew, Black, and Potter. James Potter.

How Snape's best friend had managed to fully turn herself around and befriend his worst enemy, he didn't know. He couldn't comprehend it, especially considering how enraged she had been at Potter that June afternoon.

It was hard to admit, even simply to himself, but Lily hadn't just ruined his control. Severus Snape was heartbroken. He would never tell anyone this, but the day he called his beautiful Lily a Mudblood would be a day he'd regret for the rest of his life—and he already knew it at the young age of sixteen.

Severus sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, surrounded by his friends, who were darkly discussing news of the Dark Lord Voldemort's progress. Or, he should say, his "friends." These boys were like-minded, and identified with his values, but they didn't really care about him. Not like she had. Lily.

He couldn't pay attention to the other Slytherins; his black, glittering eyes were fixed on the far end of the Hall, and the cheerily laughing Gryffindor table. No doubt perfect, charming Potter had just made some stupendous joke, because he and his friends were hysterical, doubled over and out of breath. His eyes found their own way to Lily Evans, seated beside Potter and across from Lupin, and her normally pale cheeks were pink from all the giggling. Snape couldn't help it and suddenly, he felt a yearning in the pit of his stomach for the days he used to make her laugh. Why had she deserted him?

Her emerald eyes were wet and teary from all her amusement, and Severus stared unabashedly. She never noticed when he looked at her anymore—when they had been close, his eyes would meet hers across the Great Hall and they could share all of their thoughts without a single word. But now she didn't realize, or she didn't care. Snape watched her in class, in the corridors, out on the grounds, only hoping for a small glance in return.

And then suddenly, he was granted one. Lily's eyes were locked on his, black and green paired once more. She gave a small jolt as she realized he was staring at her; her pink lips parted slightly and her reddish eyebrows raised for a millisecond. He couldn't remove his incessant gaze.

Potter had noticed her jump, and he turned to her with a question, placing his hand on her forearm. Snape grit his teeth. Lily gave the lightest of smiles, and shook her head, begging off his concern. She then gave a quick farewell to her friends and strolled out of the Hall.

"Going to the library. See you later." Snape stood up rigidly and darted from the Slytherin table. This was his moment. Lily had seen him, and she could not deny it. She was alone and she would talk to him, if only for a minute. He needed this, needed her. She would listen to him.

He could just make out her shock of red hair against the gray wall of stones at the end of the corridor; she turned right and dashed up the staircase.

Snape was not athletic by any means, but he knew he could run faster than Lily. He sprinted to the end of the hall, black robes loudly billowing out behind him. When his foot touched the staircase, she turned her head; when she saw him there, her climbing took on a panicked state.

Why would she be scared of him? He almost contemplated turning around, defeated, and going down to the Slytherin common room, but then Hogwarts had its say.

The staircase moved; Lily fell against the side and sighed, unable to escape her old friend. She sank down to sit on the top step, which was now connected to nothing. Snape made his way up, and perched himself one stair below her.

"Severus," she acknowledged him coldly, with a stiff nod.

He was slightly hurt. At least she hadn't descended to calling him _Snivellus,_ like the rest of Potter's crew. But he had always been Sev to her- even when they had first met.

"Lily." He almost whispered her name; it had been so long since he had last uttered it. "Why do you avoid me?"

"You know why. I thought I made this clear already." Real tears gathered under her eyes, "You hurt me. It wouldn't have meant as much if you hadn't meant as much to me, if you weren't my best friend. I can shrug off what other people say; they don't really know me. But you did, and you still only saw me for my dirty Muggle blood." Her voice was breaking, and a first, solitary tear slid down her cheek. Severus reached up and wiped it away with an ink-stained thumb.

"I didn't mean it, Lily. I was just angry, and—"

"You shouldn't have spoken that vile word, no matter how furious you were at James. And especially not to me." She had turned away from him, and now he was speaking to her long red tresses.

"You call him 'James' now. You used to call me 'Sev.'" He had lost his control again; something in the back of his mind scowled at his tone, which was reminiscent of a five-year-old. But his comment had brought her face back to him again.

"He's my friend. And you've showed me that you aren't." The monster in the pit of his stomach rattled its chains and roared.

"He's done terrible things to you, Lily! Don't you remember how many times you cried on my shoulder from all of Potter's disgusting pranks and rude comments? How can you call that arrogant bastard a friend?" He was yelling now, his control nothing but a ghostly memory.

"Jokes aren't as damaging, Severus. James was stupid, but boys can be, especially to girls they fancy. I can't laugh off what you said to me. It was wicked, and I'm starting to see that you can be too. You're hanging around with the darkest Slytherins around, who're probably going to up and join the Death Eaters when they graduate!" she hissed. There was a cold fire in Lily's eyes, and Severus couldn't stand it. He had to be honest with her.

"I need you, Lily. Please… I can't be without you." He brought up both of his cold hands and grasped her warm ones. In his mind he added, "I love you." But he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. He tried to convey it in his pleading expression, from the depths of his dark eyes, and he squeezed her hands gently.

There was a warmth to Lily's face that he hadn't been able to see before, and he hoped that perhaps his best friend had returned to him. But it disappeared just as suddenly as it had arrived, and he was left with the hard glare of a girl he no longer knew.

"What am I supposed to do, Sev, welcome you warmly into my arms after you've just discussed techniques for murdering Muggles? Should I introduce you properly to my friends James, Remus, Sirius, and Peter?" Severus couldn't resist scowling; Lily shook her head and blinked away the remains of her tears. "No. I can't."

"You alright, Lils?" a familiar voice carried from below. Severus looked down and sneered; Potter and his cronies stood there, glaring at him. His face went blank.

"No need to worry, Potter," he spat. "Evans and I were just discussing a Potions theory I brought up. I'm leaving." He turned away from Lily to stalk down the steps. He continued down, making his way to the dungeons without a single backward glance.

Severus Snape had always prided himself on his control.

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So... I didn't like this chapter that much. I don't think I write Snape very well. Anyway, please review and give me some delicious rewarding feedback! Sorry this one wasn't posted sooner, but the Super bowl distracted me.... yay Saints! Next chapter centers around Neville... get excited! It'll be prompt this time.


	4. Bravery

(Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter doesn't belong to me. Though I wish it did. Or I'd even settle for belonging to the world of Harry Potter.)

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**CHAPTER 4: Bravery**

Loafer-clad feet shuffled hesitantly across the seventh floor corridor. _Come to my office tomorrow after the memorial,_ the flowing, smooth script had outlined. What could Headmistress McGonagall possibly want to discuss with him? Surely she had many other, much more important things to deal with at the moment than an average ex-student.

Wasn't she busy organizing yet another memorial service tomorrow, in Professor Snape's honor, since Harry finally proved his fidelity to the Wizarding World? And she was surely occupied with her normal Head duties, setting up everything that would be necessary to begin another year at Hogwarts.

He carelessly brought his hand down to grasp the weight resting in the scabbard at his hip. He grimaced as his shoulder protested the movement; it was still in pain from a skirmish he'd had with Ron in the Auror training facility the day before. He could have fixed it with little magical effort, but he chose to keep it as a reminder that he needed to work on his maneuvers. Neville was an enthusiastic Auror, and his superiors told him he had skill and tons of potential, but the fact remained that most of the time he was as clumsy as Auror Tonks had been.

His fingers caressed a ruby-encrusted hilt; he had worn Gryffindor's sword to the 5th year memorial of the Battle of Hogwarts at Harry's insistence, and he was still in shock at the place of honor he had been awarded at the ceremony. He stood on Harry's left, while Ron and Hermione were on his right. Hannah had beamed and waved at him from the crowd, and Neville was sure that his cheeks had burned a bright Weasley red.

Perhaps McGonagall wanted the sword back. It was Gryffindor's, after all, not Neville's, and Harry hadn't mentioned anything about returning it after he had presented it to him a few hours before the ceremony… Yes, that was probably what she wanted him for. Godric Gryffindor's sword belonged back in the Headmistress's office. He didn't blame her for wanting it; she had been a Gryffindor, too, in her day.

The young Auror found himself standing in front of the gargoyle guarding her office for quite a while as he racked his brain for the password. Had she even mentioned it in her note? He huffed to himself and paced back and forth impatiently, scratching at a tuft of hair just above his left ear. What would someone like McGonagall set as a password anyway? Not sweets—

"Mr. Longbottom!" A familiar Scottish brogue echoed down the stone hallway as the tartan-clad professor rushed towards him. "You are prompt. I apologize for my lateness; I was discussing this evening's banquet with the house elves, and the time escaped me." She held out a lined hand, and Neville reached for it, confused. In all his years at Hogwarts, and afterwards, a teacher had never once shook his hand.

It seemed that all headmasters and headmistresses possessed a certain omniscience; or perhaps Minerva McGonagall knew her Gryffindors quite more than Neville realized, because her standard stern expression softened.

"You are no longer a student of mine, Mr. Longbottom. In fact, you have not been for some time. You have grown up into quite an Auror as well as a war hero and I believe a handshake is a pertinent greeting, do you not agree?"

"Oh… yes, Professor, thanks." He gave her hand a firm shake.

"I assume you are wondering why I have called you here. Follow me up to the office, and we shall discuss it further." The woman turned to the gargoyle. "_Loch Lomond_." As it hopped aside, she pranced up the stairs, Neville hobbling on behind her.

The office was not much changed since Neville had last been inside; Professor Snape had kept it to honor Dumbledore, and Headmistress McGonagall, it seemed, felt the same way, though Neville could see her favorite tartan pattern had gained quite a presence in the room. The chairs were upholstered with it, and he also noticed it in the curtains at the back of the office. He smiled as he pictured what her living quarters must look like: curtains, linens, and carpet all in the same plaid.

"Take a seat, lad." She waved her wand and a chair slid over to accommodate the young man on the other side of her desk. As he was dropping into his seat, someone burst through the door, panting heavily. Neville heard a meow and suddenly knew that this gray old man must be aging caretaker Argus Filch, as Mrs. Norris stood --oddly unchanged-- at his feet.

"Headmistress! Peeves… wand… fourth floor… chaos!" He could barely get any words out between his heaving breaths, but the headmistress understood him. She turned to her visitor and made her apologies.

"Forgive me, Mr. Longbottom, but a simple 'Expelliarmus' will do the trick. I should return in a few minutes. Have some tea, and a biscuit if you'd like." As she followed Filch out of the room, Neville heard her grumble about "poor sods" that let Peeves get too close, and he chuckled merrily to himself.

"Find something funny_, _Mr. Longbottom?"

Neville immediately paled. He knew that drawl. And he didn't think all the Auror experience in the world would ever keep him from being deathly scared of that voice and the man it belonged to. He summoned his training and tried to keep cool as he glanced around the room. Snape had been a headmaster of Hogwarts; of course he would have a portrait. _I've got to stop quaking in my boots, _Neville thought, _He's not even really here, it's just a picture… one that can talk, but can't get any closer, or do anything to me. _He drew in a long breath and set a cheery grin on his face. He knew that would irk Snape to no end.

"Professor Snape! I didn't see you up there! How's portrait life going for you?" Neville could feel Snape intensely trying not to roll his eyes— not out of respect for his former student, but as a matter of personal dignity.

"I have discovered that you are now a Dark Wizard Catcher. I must admit I am curious as to how you managed the Potions N.E.W.T. without exploding a single cauldron? No doubt your closeness to Potter, the oh-so-great saviour of the Wizarding World, allowed you to slip by with below average performance." Neville bristled at that insinuation.

"Actually, sir, I managed quite well enough without you hanging over my shoulder. Your presence must have just been a bad luck charm for me all those years." He tried to shrug casually, but he just ended up looking like he had an odd twitch in his shoulder.

"Apparently. I, for one, am shocked that you seem to have left your beloved plants behind." He paused, seemingly remembering something. "This has been quite stimulating conversation, Longbottom, but I wish to see the conference at the Potioneers' Society which will be starting momentarily and must reside in my other portrait in order to do so." And then he stalked out of his frame, black cloak billowing behind him as always.

Neville sighed in relief at his departure. However, Snape had been right about one thing—Neville had abandoned his plants. Auror work and the constant training to stay in form took up too much time, and he had no room in his schedule for garden-tending anymore. But he couldn't ponder it any longer, as Headmistress McGonagall entered her office once again.

"Apologies again, Mr. Longbottom. I trust you have not been too bored in my absence." She breathlessly made her way to her seat, smoothed down a stray lock of hair, adjusted her square-framed glasses, and folded her hands on her desk before continuing. "One of the duties I must fulfill as Headmistress involves handling staffing issues, as I'm sure you are aware."

"Sure, Professor, but what does that have to do with me? Does the school need an Auror posted here? I'm sure you'd have to talk to my supervisor abo—"

"Professor Sprout is retiring. She is old, and tired, and I need someone to teach Herbology."

"But—" Neville sputtered.

"Yes, I am aware that you are currently pursuing a career as an Auror, but I also know that you have not only a love but also a great talent for Herbology. You were the only student in your year to achieve an Outstanding N.E.W.T. in the subject."

"Only because Ron convinced Hermione that she wouldn't need it!" He felt like he was a tiny first year again, blushing at the compliment his former professor had given him.

"Miss Granger's relationship with Mr. Weasley is irrelevant," she sighed. "I sincerely hope that you will consider taking this post, Mr. Longbottom. The pay is not much better than you are receiving now as a young Auror, but Hogwarts will be your home, and you will be fed 3 square—and quite delicious— meals a day. Not to mention, you will gain full access to every greenhouse on the grounds, and you will get to spend as much of your time tending to the plants as you could possibly wish, especially when classes are not in session." Neville could see the ghost of a smirk on McGonagall's face; she knew this post was his dream-come-true.

"To be honest, Professor, I'd jump at the chance to be the Herbology professor if I only knew how to teach." He brought one hand up to his forehead, his fingertips tangling in his light hair.

"You'd be surprised how simple it is once you begin. When I first started out teaching Transfiguration many years ago, I was just as clueless as you are." She smiled and Neville was sure she was thinking back on her first year of teaching. "At any rate, I found that within a few weeks I felt as if I had been a professor for all of my life. Many people have a certain aptitude for teaching- many more than one would expect."

"Pardon me, Professor, but do you really think I have the confidence to stand in the front of a classroom and command attention like you did when I was a student?" The look on Neville's face was sheepish, and he was suddenly his eleven-year-old self again, embarrassed at botching up yet another spell in her class.

"Neville," the young man's jaw dropped at such familiar address from this strict woman, "You are a Gryffindor. You were able to pull the sword at your hip from the Sorting Hat when Voldemort stood a few paces away, and the Hat sitting on your head was ablaze. You told him that you'd join him 'when hell freezes over'… I've never been prouder of a student than I was at that moment. Are you telling me now you are afraid of a few schoolchildren?"

Neville gaped at Headmistress McGonagall. He really had nothing to say; she was right, of course. He felt embarrassment flowing up his cheeks again, and he shook his head.

"Being an Auror requires plenty of courage and strength of will, that which all Gryffindors possess. Only some, however, have the sort of bravery that makes for a wonderful teacher. Trust me when I impress upon you that you are one of these people."

"I believe you, Professor. And I'll do it. I've missed my plants, and I've missed Hogwarts." Admitting this gave Neville a sort of warm feeling inside, and he was glowing happily at the prospect of returning to Hogwarts this upcoming September.

"Then we will shake on it, Neville. And now that we are going to be colleagues, I must ask you to call me Minerva." She graced him with one of the fullest smiles he had ever seen on her face.

"I'm not sure I can manage that just yet, M-M-Mi—Professor. I'll work on it. When do I move in?"

* * *

A/N: Happy President's Day to all my readers from the States! Happy New Year to everyone of the Chinese persuasion! and I hope everyone had a lovely Valentine's Day yesterday. I spent all day writing, watching the Olympics, and eating lots of chocolate ^^ mmm. If you love me, you'll review... right?

Next chapter may or may not feature our resident bookish werewolf... I haven't decided on the order of the next few chapters yet.


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